


Agrippina

by somegunemojis



Series: Tender Mercies [23]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Mental Health Issues, except it's not all that friendly, friendly concern
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:13:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26293954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somegunemojis/pseuds/somegunemojis
Summary: Worried enough to call twice, but she's not a friend.
Relationships: Bettino Tahan & Cataline DuFrense
Series: Tender Mercies [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893175
Kudos: 1





	Agrippina

October, 2016 -- VR, Italia

Her mouth runs just as hot in Verona as it did in the desert two years ago, he thinks with no small amount of amusement. The leaves are starting to turn on the trees, and a cold wind creeps in between the cramped, ancient buildings of the city. Every time he sees her, she looks like she’s bundled for arctic weather, and she undoubtedly notices how drawn he looks, the faint tremble to his fingers. He feels half-mad, some days, mourning something he’ll never be able to put words to, all the things and the days he’s buried deep. She calls him, maybe once a week, and he tries to be good company.

The days pass in markers of anniversaries, marked permanently in his mind. One year since Rana slipped headfirst into that ditch. One year since Rossi pulled that bullet out of that corpse for evidence. One year since, once year since, one year si--

His phone is ringing. He’d forgotten it was ringing when he saw who it was that was calling him, staring at the screen until it rang out to voicemail. She’s calling him again. Bettino wonders what’s got her… what, concerned? Angry? Enough to call him twice in a row. He answers. 

Cataline DuFrense’s voice rings tinnily on the line. “Oh, good. You’re alive.” Her voice is almost totally flat, like she’s pissed she felt like she had to call again. He stares out over the Adige, sluggishly moving along.

“Don’t sound so excited about it,” is his dry answer. “Did you need something?” 

The line is silent for a moment. He thinks about sinking into the cold water in October of 2009, getting dragged out by the strap of his rifle. The shock that had come after. Leans against the railing, and peers down into the muddy brown river below. Her voice startles him out of his reverie. “No, I don’t need anything, you-- Have you eaten anything today?” 

Bettino’s brows shoot up on his forehead, and he allows it because there’s nobody around to see. He leans his chin on his hand, his elbow resting against cold stone and supporting most of his weight. It takes him a moment to think. Has he? He can hardly remember, it seems. He doesn’t think so. His hands feel a little weak, he’s tired. “Yes,” he responds softly. The water churning below looks cold. He pulls away from the edge and starts walking away. “Did you call just to ask me if I’d eaten anything?” 

“No.” Cataline’s voice… he can tell the amusement in his question rankled her, in some way or another. “Do you need anything?” 

He wonders when she’s going to work up to asking if he’s been taking his meds-- probably soon. She’s not one to mince words. He lifts a hand to wipe the half-smile off his face and pauses, wondering if the faint smudge of crusted blood under his nails is real or imagined. Looking away from his hand won’t keep him from obsessing, but it will keep him from seeing. 

Does he need anything? He doesn’t know. He can’t stop thinking about Rossi, the Captain. That whole mess. He can’t stop thinking about the heroin, or the pink jacket. He can’t stop thinking about how Bianchi had leaned so close to him, his grip hard enough to bruise his collarbone, and the acid that had poured out of his mouth. And perhaps this is all loyalty will ever buy him, in a world so deprived of goodness and warmth and light. A world deprived of love. It buys him pain. In the night, in the day. A great screaming void. Death at his masters' door. 

For a moment, a mad moment, he lets himself feel a spark of… of something. Maybe he wants more than that. Maybe he wants justice. Maybe he thinks she can help, or offer advice, or maybe he just wants to talk about it. So he opens his mouth, and his voice is raspy when it rolls out of him, like he’s parched. “Have you ever heard of--” _Bianchi_ , he doesn’t finish the sentence. She may have met him in Libya, might even remember him. But he doesn’t know how to, or perhaps can’t, ask for help. The two extremes: she won’t care at all. He didn’t know her two years ago, and he hardly knows her now, except for the fact that she feels obligated to reach out to him occasionally. Or she could get herself killed, looking into it. He’s not sure he could articulate how dangerous it is. He’s pretty sure he could never choke out what happened, either. “Never mind,” he finishes, softer than before. Bettino glances around and finds he’s back at the river, and this time when he turns his back on it, he tells himself it’s for good. “I don’t need anything, DuFrense. Listen, I have to go.” There’s a long silence on her end, and he adds, “I’ll talk to you later.”

Apparently that’s enough of a promise for her. At her loaded “Goodbye, then,” he snaps the phone shut, and slips it into his pocket.


End file.
